
^r. 




Class J!'_'5jiAJi4- 






COPYRIGHT DEPOSITi 



Tim Thoughts 

By 

Tim Thrift 

Author of "Tim Talks" 



PUBLISHED BY THE AUTHOR 
CLEVELAND OHIO 






Copyright, 1922, by Tim Thrift 
All Rights Reserved 



DEC 16 "22 



©C1A600599 



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TO THE READER: 

SEVERAL years ago, when I published a little 
volume of random sketches and essays, under 
the title of Tim Talks, it was at the urge of 
some of my fellow workers, for whom the Talks 
had been written originally and published as a 
column feature in a weekly circulated among them. 

Now, in publishing this second volume of sim- 
ilar material, I do so at the urge of friends made 
thru the first, who, like Oliver Twist, have de- 
manded "More!". 

Certainly this is not literature, for I make no 
pretention to being a litterateur. Call it, rather, 
a collection of random thoughts such as come to 
an average man who indulges in a bit of philo- 
sophical contemplation now and then, with a pipe 
for company. 

Visualizing those who, despite this, seem to 
want me to share such thoughts with them, I ded- 
icate this little volume of Tim Thoughts to folks 
who are human enough to be sympathetic; healthy 
enough to be optimistic, and happy enough to be 
sentimental. 

— TIM THRIFT. 
Cleveland, Ohio, 
1922 



CONTENTS 

There Was a Time — - - - - - - 11 

A Leaf of Life 17 

"Ask Dad — He Knows" - ~ - - - 23 

The Silent Partner - - 27 

On the Influence of Reading ^ - - - 33 

The Case of Mary Smith 37 

Small Town Stuff - - - - - - 43 

The Doff Deserving ------ 47 

Perdu! 53 

The Christmas Gift - - - - - - 57 

The Chicken and the Goose - - - - 63 

Chatter-Chatter -------69 

An Elegy in Prose ------ 73 

The Riddle: Man 81 

With Reverse English ------ 85 

Digits and Deeds - - - - - - -91 

Calvary --------95 

A Postlude of the Post 99 

The Quest 105 

The Parable of the Position 109 

I Will! 115 

Daughters of Duty - - - - - -119 

Where the Fourth is First 125 

The Answer 131 



There Was a Time 



THERE WAS A TIME — 

THEY wandered down an old-fashioned lane, in an 
old-fashioned world, on an old-fashioned June 
night. And the moon cast silvery lanes thru the 
trees for their young feet to linger along. And 
the soft wind touched their faces with remindful 
caresses. And the shadows suggested the text for won- 
derful silences. 

She was sixteen — he was nineteen. They were touched 
with the witchery of the time and the place and their age. 
They were under the thrall of their first great emotions. 
He stood at the verge of his first Rubicon. But something 
stirred within the boy that made him hesitate — and he passed 
out of the spell. 

There was a time — 

At twenty-one he had come thru unscathed — heart- 
whole and fancy free. Now the City lured him. There 
was a good job awaiting him there. He would leave on the 
morrow. This was his last night with her. 

They rode along in the old phaeton Dick — knowing 
horse — -picked darksome, friendly roads, where he could 
walk sedately, without touch of rein or bit. They talked 
of many things — of days past and of days to come. He 
felt she would welcome his embrace. Once he almost leaned 
over to enfold her in his arms. He was at the verge of 
his second Rubicon. But something stirred within the youth 
that made him hesitate — and he passed out of the spell. 

There was a time — 

The world called him a "gay young dog." A bachelor 
— at thirty — with a successful business, worldly comforts, 
and the brightest prospects before him. He was sought. 



11 



far and wide, for he was the Hfe of a party — the ** catch " 
of the town — the favored son of good fortune. 

She was a widow — young, wonderful, vital. Of all his 
fair friends he enjoyed her companionship most. They 
were much together. The world they moved in whispered 
and gossiped and intrigued. 

The fire smouldered redly in the grate that winter night. 
The room, rich in its appointments, had never seemed to 
him so comfortable, so cozy, so homey. He sat on the big 
davenport with her and gazed into the glowing embers. 
His thoughts were in a tumult. After all, was n't it about 
time he was settling down — in a home like this ? 

He glanced at her thru half-closed eyes. She was great- 
ly to be desired. Warm, tender, human, womanly! He 
was at the verge of his third Rubicon. But something stirred 
within the man that made him hesitate — and he passed out 
of the spell. 

There was a time — 

At fifty he was more successful than ever. Wealth had 
come to him. True, he was corpulent and there were deep 
lines in his face, but they still called him a ** gay dog," save 
that they qualified it with " old " instead of " young." 
Vaguely that irritated him, but he did not know why. 

Business took him back to the old town — the scene of 
his boyhood days. There, in the quiet charm of an old 
home, he found her again — she of sixteen; she of the old- 
fashioned lane, in the old-fashioned world, on the old-fash- 
ioned June night. 

And he was glad that this was so; that no man had en- 
tered her life; that she had come to the fullness of her 
womanhood — and beyond — with all the grace and charm 

12 



and character she had given promise of in the early years. 

So he saw much of her, in that quaint old sitting-room, 
in that house that breathed of lavender and old lace. And, 
as the days passed, and he over-stayed his time and his busi- 
ness, he grew to know, deep in that heart which had been 
never really touched, that he loved her. 

And, with the realization, something stirred within him 
which hade him hesitate no longer. He was at the verge of 
his fourth Rubicon — and he crossed it. 

She listened quietly, compassionately, to his plea. Then 
she spoke: 

" We have both lived alone so long, have become so set 
in our ways, have formed such habits of a lifetime, that it 
would be unfair — even disastrous — to attempt to re-mold 
our lives. The thing you ask can never be." 

There was a time — 

At sixty, midst that luxury which wealth can bring, he 
sits — alone. In his house of life no patter of baby feet 
across the floors; no soothing hand upon his brow when 
fever comes; no loved voice to speed him on his way; no 
clinging arms to welcome his return. But — 

There was a time ! 



13 



A Leaf of Life 



A LEAF OF LIFE 

THE God of Fate was asleep at the switchboard. 
Those hands which controlled, thru the countless 
connections they made, the destiny of millions of 
earth folk, lay clasped on his gently heaving 
breast. A soft rumble, as of distant thunder, be- 
tokened that his sleep was sound. 

The God of Jest, ever adventuring, came upon the scene. 
In playful mood he stole past the sleeping Fate, and noting 
two idle lines of destiny, plugged them in in the board be- 
fore him. Fate stirred, awakening, and Jest scampered off 
again, laughing to himself at the trick he had played. 



Peter, student and philosopher, straightened up at the 
reading table over which he had been bending in study for 
many hours, and closed his book. The impulse had come 
upon him — he could not have told why — to throw the 
musty tome across the room and seek the mysteries of the 
night. 

He arose and flung open the window. The air was soft 
and alluring. Below him the lights of the city twinkled 
with amusement as they beheld his spectacled eyes gazing 
so somberly upon them. 

He turned again to his book, but his mind refused to 
concentrate upon it. There was an urge in his soul that 
would not be denied. Practical always, he defined it. He 
craved companionship — bright lights, gay music, laughter, 
frivolity. . . . 

So Peter, serious-minded Peter, a victim of the God of 
Jest, put on his coat and hat and passed into the night, an 

17 



actor in an intrigue which Fate had never planned for him. 



Mazie, third-row chorus, would have told you, an hour 
before, that this was the life! But now, as she hurried in- 
to her street clothes, and paused before the mirror for a last 
dab of powder, it suddenly sickened her. 

She remembered her face as she had looked at it that 
first performance — a face rosy with the health of the 
country life she had led — and the white thing that gazed 
at her now frightened her. 

She crossed the room and flung open the window. Al- 
though it opened upon a court, littered with rubbish, the 
night was kind and veiled all save the myriad star eyes that 
saw and understood. 

Dreamful, she paused for a moment, then turned again 
to the room, unheeding the chatter and shrill laughter of 
her companions. There was an urge in her soul that would 
not be stilled. Her intuition defined it. She craved com- 
panionship — a home, the soft light of a table lamp, the 
contented laugh of some one who cared, the scamper of 
little feet. 

So Mazie, third-row chorus, a victim of the God of Jest, 
put on her coat and hat and passed into the night, an ac- 
tress in an intrigue which Fate had never planned for her. 

It happened at Sixth and Broad. 

Peter was hurrying along, impelled by a haste without 
reason, for he had no destination. His head was down, 
buried in his collar, for his thoughts were busy with this 
problem of the night. 

18 



Mazie, too, was hurrying. She knew not why nor 
whither. The mood was strange to her. She sought the 
Grail of Life, unconscious of the quest. 

So it happened. They bumped together, as two persons 
are destined to bump, if they will travel buried in their 
thoughts and arrive at street intersections simultaneously. 

Mazie was the first to recover. She beheld Peter — ser- 
ious-minded Peter — a very flushed and embarrassed young 
man. 

Then Peter found himself. He beheld Mazie, third-row 
chorus Mazie, a very flushed and angry young woman. 

But both Peter and Mazie saw more — what, I assure 
you my reader, I do not know, not being akin to the gods 
— for when Mazie suddenly smiled Peter smiled too. Af- 
ter that all I know is that they passed into the night, hand 
in hand, as simply as little children. 

But I've often wondered whether the joke was n't on the 
God of Jest after all! 



19 



" Ask Dad — He Knows " 



" ASK DAD — HE KNOWS " 

THUMBING idly thru the pages of a popular mag- 
azine, the slogan of an advertiser caught my eye 
— " Ask Dad — He Knows " — You have seen 
the same admonition many times, for it is the 
pivot of a great advertising campaign. But I 
wonder if it ever brought to you the message that it brought 
to me — a message probably entirely apart from its original 
intent. 

Let us see: 



The argument was heated. The four boys involved in 
it had almost reached blows. Their shrill voices rose high- 
er and higher. Suddenly one, leather-lunged, made him- 
self heard above the tumult. " I'll ask Dad — he knows ! " 
he shouted. The wrangling died away. The verdict was 
final. 



A crucial moment had come in her young life. Inex- 
perienced in such things, she had tried vainly to come to a 
decision. She felt that, whatever the answer, it would in- 
fluence all her future. So she wrestled with the problem 
until, suddenly, the calming thought came to her — ** I'll 
ask Dad — he knows ! " 



At thirty he faced a business crisis. His rise had been 
rapid. He had become a power in his world. And now 
there were those who sought his downfall. The fight had 
been long, bitter, nerve-racking. His back was against the 
wall. He was thru — unless. . . . Like a lightning 



flash came the remembrance of that haven of refuge — " I'll 
ask Dad — he knows! " was his decision. 



Oh you wonderful dads who know! You who are the 
faith and the hope and the trust and the inspiration of the 
family! You who go your quiet, patient way thru the 
years, sheltering, watching, training those tender plants 
God has placed in your garden of life! You who are the 
arbiters of those human destinies ; the Supreme Court of 
those human frailties ! You who, because you are you, must 
wear the mask and keep the faith, even when your brave 
hearts falter and your strong souls are weak with dread ! 

Oh you kindly dads who know! Day after day you 
round the hours, faithful at your bread and butter tasks — 
the paternal instinct giving you the strength to be the men 
you are. Husband, father, lover, comrade, friend — the 
silent griefs you bear; the sacrifices you make; the personal 
ambitions you forego, that you may lay upon the altar of 
the home the pledge of your fidelity to the tasks life has 
allotted you — to be the dads who know ! 

Oh you unsung dads who know! How great is your re- 
sponsibility! How keen must be the realization of your 
weakness and your strength! How potent your power — 
to others; how impotent it must seem to you! 



" Ask Dad — He Knows " — 
To me it seems a benediction. 



94 



The Silent Partner 



THE SILENT PARTNER 

THE business day had been long, irritating, nerve- 
racking. There was a dull ache in his eyes; his 
body was lax and unresponsive; all the vigor and 
vim that were customarily his had departed. He 
was tired — dog tired — of business — of every- 
thing. What he craved more than anything in the world 
— and did not realize it, being a man — was mothering. 

He closed his desk with an irritable bang; struggled into 
his coat ; slapped his hat on his head ; started homeward. His 
office companions gazed after him. ** How'd you like that 
grouch for a fireside companion ? " queried one. The others 
laughed. Sympathy ! 

After a car ride that seemed interminable — in an atmos- 
phere of a hundred human odors — he reached his street. 
The pain in his eyes was acute now and his head throbbed 
in unison with it. Perhaps it was this that caused him to 
stumble up the walk without noticing the house was dark. 

As he opened the door a sudden chill smote his heart. 
Why no welcome — no light — no evidence of life ? This 
was strange indeed ! In the two years of his married life 
he could not recall a similar instance. 

His hand groped for the switch and the lights in the liv- 
ing room flashed on. Everything was as of old — his fav- 
orite chair beside the reading lamp — the mahogany table, 
covered with books and magazines — the Victrola in the 
corner — 

Hurriedly he went from room to room, upstairs and 
down. The house was in order thruout. But he was its 
only occupant. 

27 ; 



He returned to the living room — dropped into his chair. 
This was his house, but it was not his home. It was as dead 
as the fire that had ashed in the grate the evening before. 
The life, the brightness, the glow had departed. Something 
was lacking — the one thing, save one — that could fill four 
walls with color and charm — a personality — his wife ! 

The one thing, save one ! His mind dwelt for a moment 
on that exception. Children ! But they had not been so 
blessed. Perhaps it was the thing that made the other so 
acute. Perhaps its lack had drawn them closer together 
than most married folks. 

His thoughts surged on, intermingled with that pain in his 
eyes which stabbed unceasingly. 

Had he been as fair with her as he might have been ? He 
had been out in the world every day, meeting new people, 
enjoying new experiences, living the life of change and ex- 
citement. He had expanded, improved, grown. WTiile she, 
confined in the cocoon of domestic life, had not enjoyed 
equal opportunities. Her round of daily household duties 
suddenly seemed too mean and small for such a personality. 

He lashed himself on. He had been selfish indeed ! He 
had taken her, filled with spirit and life, from surroundings 
that gave her every opportunity, and had made her his 
prisoner. There, in this prison he called home, she was to 
rest content with the privilege of serving him, of administer- 
ing to his wants, of catering to the whims of his idle hours. 

True, they had gone out occasionally — to the theatre — 
to a friend's — to the ** movies " — True, they had enter- 
tained, too. But, after all, had n't the burden of such en- 
tertainment been hers? 

Now she had gone. He did not know where. He was 

98 



as one dazed. How could he go on without her ? Who 
would there be to soothe him when he came home, as he 
had come home this evening, mind and body weary ? Who 
would there be to mother and humor him ? 

Suddenly the door opened; a sweep of fresh air smote his 
fevered face. He turned. His wife was standing before him. 

" Where in the devil have you been and why is n't dinner 
ready .^^ " he greeted her irritably. 



Oh Life, how subtle are thy little mysteries I 



On the Influence of Reading 




ON THE INFLUENCE OF READING 

HOW me what they read and I'll tell you what 
they'll be — " This fragment from a spirited 
discussion in the smoking compartment of the 
train came to my ears as I passed the door. 

I did not pause to hear the conclusion of the 
statement. The dominant voice was sufficient. My im- 
agination bridged the gap. It also furnished me with some 
food for contemplation as I resumed my seat in the Pullman. 

Considering reading: 

There was the case of " Bull," back in the old days in 
the old town. *' Bull " was an avidious reader — of a cer- 
tain type of " literature ". In school he found it difficult 
to scan the classics for the class; but in the loft of the barn, 
betimes, he eagerly devoured, without lack of understand- 
ing, those valiant deeds recorded by the trenchant pens of 
such worthy authors as Burt L. Standish, Nick Carter, Cap. 
Collier and Frank Reed. 

Indeed, " Bull " was probably the best customer of our 
village book emporium. On rainy afternoons, in particular, 
he could be found, bedded in the fragrant hay, a " nickel 
library " in hand, lost to the world of mere material things. 
At such times, I know, nothing save his mother's voice an- 
nouncing the evening meal could bring him back to earth 
again. 

So much for "Bull". We've placed his status as a 
follower of literature. 

Now let us consider the case of " Pinny ". 

'* Pinny " was the antithesis of " Bull ". I remember 
him well. He was a pale-faced wisp of a boy, always ser- 

33 



ious and restrained. He, too, was a great reader; but what 
a world of difference in the selection of his authors. Plato, 
Pliny, Socrates and Seneca were, as I recall, his favorites. 
Need I name more ? You get the trend of his taste in 
reading. 

The gap between these two leading ** readers " of those 
boyhood days was as the gap between the poles. 

As I recalled these things I smiled to myself, for I felt I 
knew how my travelling companion of the smoker would 
have analyzed the outcome. 

But he would have been wrong. 

I happen to know the life history of both "Bull** and 
" Pinny ". 

" Bull," I dare say, you 've heard preach, for he*s a min- 
ister with more than a local reputation. 

"Pinny" has also achieved distinction. When I saw 
him last he had started his fourth burlesque troupe on the 
road and he told me it was the best looking bunch of " beef " 
he had ever selected. 

" Show me what they read and I'll tell you what they'll 

be — " 

Uh-huh ! — sometimes ! 



34 



The Case of Mary Smith 




THE CASE OF MARY SMITH 

I HIS might be called the case of Mary Smith ver- 
sus Mary Smith, although if you were to look up 
the legal records in our town you would find it 
had to do with what was the most discussed di- 
vorce proceedings of one year. 

Mary Smith — the wife of the Hon. Harrison Hadley 
Smith — the magnate of our village — enters " right " on 
our little stage of life, destined to play an important part 
in our tragedy — or comedy — let the gods decide ! 

Mary Smith — the wife of plain John Smith, a humble 
citizen of our village — enters "left," destined, too, to play 
an important part in our domestic drama. 

Imagine now, audience — a judge, attorneys, attaches of 
the court, spectators, representatives of the press — all the 
cast and " props " of a divorce case that has set a small 
town on its ears. 

Having set the stage and arranged the players, we now 
exercise our prerogative and brush aside all legal technicali- 
ties. This is not the chronological history of a trial do- 
mestic, but a story of domestic trials. 

Consider the case developed and set forth. The judge 
is speaking. 

" The point I do not understand," he says impressively, 
" is why we have two Mary Smiths as plaintiffs in this case." 

Mary Smith — Mrs. Harrison Hadley Smith — turns 
and stares haughtily at Mary Smith — plain Mrs. John 
Smith. 

Mary Smith — plain Mrs. John Smith — flushes. She 
turns to the judge appealingly. 

37 



" Please, Judge, Your Honor, Sir,'* she falters, ** I did 
not know. They told me I was to come here to a trial — 
I have n't done anything." 

The Judge gazes at her with a whimsical smile. A sud- 
den thought crosses his judicial mind. He speaks: 

" Mary Smith," he says kindly, " I take it that you do 
not seek a divorce from John Smith." 

" Oh, no sir," is the tremulous reply, as her eyes seek the 
figure of a man in working clothes who sits at the back of 
our stage. 

The Judge's whimsical smile deepens. 

" Perhaps you'll tell us why, Mary Smith. For it seems 
to this Court that you have by far the better case. I know 
your history, Mary Smith, and you have not had an easy 
time. I know you have worked your fingers to the bone; 
that you have been denied the luxuries other women have 
enjoyed; that your pleasures have been almost nil; that you 
have lost the prettiness that was yours as a girl, given it in 
the upbringing of your family; that you have found naught 
in your married life save disillusionment and hardship. 

" I know these things, Mary Smith, for I know the life 
of you and John, and knowing, I want you to tell us why, 
in the face of them, you do not seek to separate yourself 
from them." 

He pauses for her reply. 

Mary Smith pales and reddens by turns. Again her eyes 
seek her husband, as though to take courage from him for 
her reply. When she speaks, her voice is low but clear. 

** We've had a hard time. Judge," she says, ** but my 
John loves me and that makes the burden light." 

S8 



"Ah, now we come to the crux of the matter!" ejac- 
ulates the Judge. 

" How do you know John loves you ? " He hurls the 
question at her. 

Mary Smith does not falter. 

" Because he has told me so every day of our married life," 
she says triumphantly. 

The Judge leans back in his chair. 

" Mary Smith, real plaintiff in this case," he says, ad- 
dressing Mrs. Harrison Hadley Smith, " why do you — 
granted all your life everything that a woman could desire 
— your slightest wish gratified — your most unreasonable 
demand complied with — seek separation from your hus- 
band?" 

And Mary Smith, the fortunate, reduced to a tearful, un- 
happy woman, makes reply. 

" Because he no longer loves me," she sobs. 

" How do you know that ? " his Honor demands. 

" Because he never tells me so,^' she says accusingly, with 
her eyes on the Honorable Harrison Hadley Smith at the 
rear of our stage. 

Divorce granted — 

Case dismissed — 

Oh, Solomon Reader, this is your play. You are the 
Judge and the Jury. May yours be the responsibility of 
the decision. 

Our play is done. The curtain falls. 



39 



Small Town Stuff 




SMALL TOWN STUFF 

E gazed around his luxurious offices, then, look- 
ing at me, thru me and beyond me, with a far- 
away look in his eyes, he spoke of the thing 
that evidently lay closest to his heart: 

" I envy you of the small town," he said. 
"That is the life! There folks are real folks. You have 
neighbors, friends, a social life we of the city never know. 
Your days are peaceful and serene. There is none of this 
hustle and bustle. You have time to cultivate the worth- 
while things in life. Yours is the ideal existence; and, be- 
lieve me, that's where you 're going to find me when I get 
ready to quit and retire — in a small town environment 
where I can pass my days in peace. You live^ while I only 
exist ! " 

I thought of many things — I knew that he was city-born, 
city-bred and city-wise — but I neither affirmed nor denied 
his views. Once to every man there comes the call of the 
simple life — a small town or a few acres or even the soli- 
tude of forest or plain. Just as " sweet sixteen " pensively 
dreams of becoming a nurse or an actress, and " eager 
eighteen " longs for adventures on land and on sea. 

So I might have spoken — I of the small town life — but 
I only passed on, leaving him to his dreams. 

Ten years later, almost to the day, he settled in our 
midst. He purchased the old Bigelow place on Elm street 
and took over a little business in the village — "just to 
keep his hand in," as he explained. 

We gave him a hearty welcome, for new residents were a 
rarity in our town, and he soon found a place in our life — 
that life which goes its tranquil round year after year. 

43 



So time went on. 

Yesterday, as I was passing his office, he called me in. 
Plainly there was something on his mind — something long 
pent-up that had finally reached flood stage. He spoke: 

" I don't know where I ever got this small town stuff! " 
he exploded. ** I'm sick of it. Here your business is every- 
body's business. Here, at every turn, you find envy, mal- 
ice and selfishness. Progress left this town behind twenty 
years ago. And the monotony is making an old man of 
me. Breakfast, dinner, supper is my daily round; with 
occasionally a poor picture show or a church social or a few 
neighbors who come in to retail the latest gossip. Every- 
thing you do that shows you 've got a little red blood in 
your veins subjects you to criticism." 

A far-away look came in his eyes and he then spoke of 
the thing that evidently lay closest to his heart. 

"I'm going back to the city. That is the life! There 
people do not concern themselves about you. You come 
and go as you please. There there is always something do- 
ing — the theatre, the club, a dance, a social game. There 
there's pep and ginger and go. You see something, you 
do something, you get somewhere. There you live, while 
here you only exist I " 

I thought of many things — I who was village-born, vil- 
lage-bred and village- wise — but I neither affirmed nor de- 
nied his views. Once to every man — and oh what fortune 
if but once ! — there must come disillusionment. So it had 
come to him. 

Today he's back in the hum of things — a contented man. 

Today I'm still in the drone of things — a contented man. 

And the world goes on, with a smile at the humor of life. 

44 



The DofF Deserving 



THE DOFF DESERVING 

AS FAR as the eye could see — the desert — the sky 

/^L — somewhere a horizon blent of the two. All 

/ ^ L day the Transcontinental had carried me thru 

A J^ these vast wastes, with never a tree, a stream or 

a mountain range to vary the monotony of sand, 

sage-brush and cactus. 

And as hour after hour passed by with only this prospect 
before my eyes, some of the desolation and the loneliness of it 
all entered my soul. It was well, I reflected, that one could 
look away from the window and see human beings — travel- 
ing companions — for outside, in that tremendous sweep of 
barren plains, lurked the madness that comes with such 
complete isolation. 

Then, suddenly, a speck in the desert, that grew larger 
and larger as we drew upon it, until it assumed definite 
proportions and became an identity. It was a house — if 
one could dignify it with that name. Rough it was, and 
unsightly. But there was evidence of a woman's occupancy 
in the white curtains at the window and a red geranium 
that bloomed beside the door. 

A little distance away a team could be seen, hitched to 
a plow; and, as we drew closer, I saw that the person plow- 
ing was a woman. A young woman, dressed in overalls, 
with her hair tucked under an old felt hat. 

She stopped her work and gazed at the train as it passed. 
And she was fair to look upon — such a woman as would 
have graced any social gathering. And there was evidence 
of perfect health in her smiling face and the conscious 
strength of her carriage. 

That was all I saw — a glimpse — for we were soon be- 

47 



yond this evidence of human habitation and the panorama 
of the desert rolled before us, unbroken and unchanged. 

" A homesteader," I said to myself, softly. 

And my imagination projected and expanded as I turned 
the thought over in my mind. 

Here was high courage indeed ! To take up a homestead 
in that vast waste ; to brave the loneliness ; to wrest from 
that barren soil a fertility that meant life ; to forego the 
comforts of civilization, the pleasures of society, the advan- 
tages of cities ; alone, to pioneer and found a home! 

I turned in my seat and looked back. Already all my 
eyes saw was a speck on the horizon ; but solemnly, as one 
who performs a rite, I took off my hat to that woman. And 
with the act went my profound admiration. 



My companion and I walked along the street of a great 
city — a street famed thruout the world. It was four 
o'clock in the afternoon and the parade of fashion was on. 
About us, passing in endless procession, were the men and 
women of the world, suited and gowned with exquisite detail. 

As we sauntered along we came to a street intersection 
where traffic was at a standstill. We paused and I noticed 
near us an imposing limousine. Reclining indolently in its 
cushioned luxury was a young woman. She was smart, in 
all that smart signifies in the life of a city ; and beautiful, 
in all that beauty means when specialists have turned out 
perfect handiwork. 

My friend noted my glance and followed it. Then — 
for he knew her — he smiled and raised his hat. So I, too, 
took off my hat to her. 

48 



Traffic resumed, we moved on. 

** Who is she ? " I queried. 

There was a peculiar smile on his face. ** One of the 
great fraternity I call * 'Stead of Home,' " he replied. 

My mind flashed back. The "Homesteader!" — The 
"'Stead of Home!" To both I had taken off my hat. 

But what a world of difference marked the act! 



49 



Perdu ! 




PERDU! 

"E approach that season of the year when a 
young man's fancy turns to thoughts of 
baseball — or love — depending upon what 
fancy of young man he may be. 

Today I saw the sand-lot champions 
warming up; in the dusk last night there were couples 
strolling in the park. A strange association of impressions 
you may think, yet bridged with the thought that the future 
success of both depends upon teamwork. 

To you, my bird, who may in this phase of the moon 
and your life find the nest-building instinct stirring within 
you — a few words ; 

Do your dreaming by sunlight and your reasoning by 
moonlight. There are Helpmates and Hindermates, and 
the time to decide which you will have accompany you on 
the Great Adventure is at the threshold of the enterprise 
and not at the end of the journey. 

With a Helpmate, one can set forth, in the Springtime of 
Life, with high expectancy of reaching the Land of Heart's 
Desire and dwelling there in peace and plenty the allotted 
days. Though the journey may be rough and at times the 
burden heavy, the path somehow seems smoother and the 
load much lighter for the shoulder-to-shoulder comradeship 
of a Helpmate. 

With a Hindermate one starts upon the journey to his 
goal with a false step and a handicap. He wallows thru 
Sloughs of Despondency, struggles across Deserts of Hope- 
lessness, and at the end reaches the bleak and barren land 
of Old Age, weary, broken, disillusioned. Like a pack upon 
his back, growing heavier with each step, his Hindermate 

53 



has borne him down to earth. 

" But," you query, *' how can I be sure I've made the 
right selection ? " 

Youth or man, I cannot counsel you. Love is of the 
heart and not of the mind. Where feeling rules reason is 
dethroned. I can only wish you luck — that you may get 
in this great lottery a prize. 

For you see — or, if stricken, cannot see — any advice I 
might give would end as futile words when you were face 
to face with the reality of Her. 

Perdu I 



54 



The Christmas Gift 



THE CHRISTMAS GIFT 

A WARMTH of Christmas cheer was in the air of 
i^L Fountain Town. It was manifest in the cheery 
/— ^ greeting of each passer-by and in every smiling 
A J^ face and sparkling eye. The shops along the 
old main street reflected it and shone forth with 
unaccustomed splendor, their windows revealing thru dia- 
mond panes of frost treasures dear to the hearts of young 
and old. 

At a corner of the Square stood a goodly row of Christ- 
mas trees and piles of mistletoe and holly. Now and then 
past them, on the crunching snow, a sleigh went swiftly by 
with a merry chime of bells, or a roomy bob-sled, more 
cumbersome, moved along with a slower pace. 

Expectancy was keen upon the face of every child, and 
one might have caught it, too, deep within their elders' eyes. 
The morrow was Christmas day, when families met around 
the festal board in reunion and tokens of the season were 
exchanged. This was indeed the time of times when hearts 
should be most happy and every care forgotten. And so 
indeed they were! 

But even with the season's cheer, there were for some 
those long thoughts that must come when the mind steals 
back to mounds that hold the dear and dead. When in the 
dusk memory's cinematograph projects upon the screen of 
dreams once-familiar scenes and faces; voices long-stilled 
mingle again in the charm of conversation, and the shadows 
become beloved forms that sit with them and commune 
with them in tender retrospection. 

Such a one was the little, bowed old woman who lived 
alone in the tiny cottage at the end of Lover's Lane ( oh 

67 



the irony of the name! ) and to her went out the sympathies 
of many a villager. 

Sixty years before, to the day, she had come into the 
world in that very cottage and made brighter the life of the 
humble couple there. At twenty she was a comely maid 
— the years had led her gently — and sunshine was of ten- 
est within her eyes and laughter on her lips. 

Then the Stranger came into her quiet life and held be- 
fore her dazzlingly those golden prospects that have lured 
so many and turned to tinsel for them in the end. Will- 
ingly she gave all to him, and willingly she suffered in the 
aftermath that came. It was the retribution for the sin — 
and to her a lifetime seemed but a moment of atonement. 

Her son was a solace in the early years, but in young 
manhood, when the brand of his parentage seemed to sear 
his very soul, he vanished into the world and she heard of 
him no more. But she endured her punishment patiently. 
Never to her once appealed the injustice of her sacrifice — 
too poignant were her memories, too keen her realization of 
the price that must be paid. 

Her parents had passed away a few years after tragedy 
had come into her life, leaving her the cottage and a little 
income that sufficed for her simple wants. So the seasons 
had come and gone thru forty years : all the same to her 
whether dreamy June or ruddy December. Unobtrusively 
she had gone about her simple round of life, neither repell- 
ing nor encouraging the advances of the kindly village folk, 
and never uttering a word of complaint. When opportunity 
availed she was a gentle friend in time of need, and many 
a neighboring cottage had seen her unselfish service in an 
urgent hour. 

58 



So it was the villagers thought of her in this season of 
good cheer, while pity stirred their hearts. Well they knew 
that for her there was no family group — though she had 
many an invitation to join a neighboring one — and only 
the specters of the past would sit with her and move with 
her thru the Christmas day. 



Within her tiny cottage on this Christmas Eve the little, 
bowed old woman sat alone before the dying fire. Fitful, 
flashing flames lighted now and then her wan white face 
and brought out in sharp relief the patient fortitude limned 
upon it. Her hands were clasped together in her lap and 
between them was a baby's stocking and a little hood. At 
her feet a few broken home-made toys lay and beside her, 
in a little chest, were other treasures of the past. 

Her eyes gazed steadily into the fire and at times a tear 
would steal down a withered cheek, while her hands clasped 
the tighter. 

Her thoughts were very far away, out upon the restless 
sea of memory. Ofttimes they were storm tossed and tem- 
pests of heartaches raged within; again, the waters were at 
rest and sweet and tender recollections came. 

In this hour she lived again the fragrant days of love, 
when life seemed too full for realization and the wine of 
madness was in her cup; the later time when she stumbled 
thru an unreal world, besieged by strange phantasies and 
fears; when a little heart beat with hers and she came very 
near the great white throne thru motherhood; then, finally, 
along the mazes of those years when she reared her son — 
on — on — to that land of after whiles where nothing mat- 
tered, nothing was or was to be — save, at last, the end! 

69 



Slowly she slipped from the chair and knelt beside it, 
pressing the little stocking and the hood to her trembling 
lips. Her eyes were heavy with a weight of unshed tears. 
After a long while her voice broke the tense silence halt- 
ingly with the little prayer she had taught her boy to say. 
Again she felt his warm body nestling to her and a tousled 
head was buried in her lap — 

Now I lay me down to sleep, 
I pray the Lord my soul to keep; 
If I should die before I wake, 
I pray the Lord my soul to take. 



So the night passed and the Christmas day came in, 
bringing with it to the little, bowed old woman God's most 
precious gift — the everlasting sleep and the great eternal 
peace. ' 



60 



The Chicken and the Goose 




THE CHICKEN AND THE GOOSE 

HE minced down the street in front of me, dressed 
in the height of fashion — and a notch or two be- 
yond. Her hair was heinous and henna. 

''Some chicken! " exclaimed a voice behind me. 

But at the corner she turned and started back and I 
caught a ghmpse of her face. 

" Some goose! " I ejaculated. 

For it was plain to see, thru the enamel and paint, that 
this was not a young girl, but an old woman — probably a 
grandmother. 

The sight sickened me. Plainly, I am too old-fashioned 
to accept the new order of things — that order which re- 
fuses to acknowledge the passage of Time and attempts to 
counterfeit Youth, in the delusion that the world will ac- 
cept such spurious juvenility. 

Youth is Youth! Old Age is Old Age! Each has its 
time and its place. But one can never be the physical 
counterpart of the other. 

It's a pitiful thing to see old age fight for its youth. To 
see how frantically it clings to what it used to be. To see 
the attempts to camouflage the inevitable inroads of Time; 
the small deceits practiced to prove they are not there. To 
witness the losing fight against the wane of beauty and to 
discern so clearly the many artifices that the vanquished 
flaunt for the real. 

And it's all so useless and so foolish! 

Each period of life has its compensations — Childhood, 
Youth, Middle-Age and Old-Age — the Spring, the Sum- 

63 



mer, the Autumn, the Winter of our span of existence. Win- 
ter can be no more Spring than Autumn can be Summer. 
Yet we love them all, for those manifestations of nature 
that are so distinctively their own. 

And yet, youth can be perennial. But it is enduring, 
not in the physical sense, but in the mental and spiritual 
senses. One keeps young in one's thoughts, in one's out- 
look upon life. And as age brings with it wisdom and ex- 
perience, to combine with the untarnished imagery of youth 
and its fresh imagination, what a wonderful mental attitude 
toward life an old person can have! 

Where are the grandmothers of yesterday ? Those dear 
old ladies we all loved. With their snowy hair, the ruddy 
tint upon their cheeks, the bright snap within their eyes. 
With their gentle mien and their old-world graciousness. 
They knew their frailties; that for them there could be no 
more the activities of years agone. But there was no wist- 
ful look upon their faces; no wish to be other than they were 
— grandmothers, in very truth, with the tasks of life left to 
younger folks, but with hearts that kept young that they 
might rejoice or console with the youth for which they beat. 

What mattered it if betimes, in the soft shadows, the 
wrinkled hands relaxed the knitting or the mending that 
they held, and the mind wandered back again along the 
lanes and pains of yester-years ? That there would come 
the wistful wish that silent others might be there to share 
those declining years ? That in that thoughtful hour, old, 
remembered scenes and faces were conjured up; little feet 
pattered again across the empty playroom of the house of 
life, and those beloved of other days came to sit beside one 
and commune with one in the twilight ? 

After all, was not that one of the compensations of old 

64 



age — to have tender memories come with their soft balm ? 
To reflect, in the frankincense and myrrh of meditation, 
upon such a host of sunny days and happy years and won- 
derful events of the used-to-be ? For truly, one had only 
to open one's eyes to be again in the midst of the newer 
generation and to have as a recompense for not living as of 
it, the greater thing of living for it. 

Dear old understanding grandmothers — with your sweet 
faces in their setting of lavender and lace — where have you 
gone ? You seem to be of the vanished things — only a 
memory, " as faint, and sweet, and frail, as music." 

I confess I cannot accept your modern counterpart. 



65 



Chatter-Chatter 




CHATTER-CHATTER 

ONVERSATION is a great thing. It is a medium 
thru which we allay the tedium of many weary 
hours. Thru it we teach and are taught; we en- 
tertain and are entertained; we bore others and 
are bored ourselves. 

Conversation is as varied as the individuals conversing. 
Its topics range from the old stand-by, the weather, to the 
limit of humxan knowledge. It is a theme in itself that 
could take up the conversational hours of days. 

But — there is a place for conversation, and particularly 
that form of conversation which results from the pure love 
of conversing. 

That kind of conversation is appropriately termed chatter. 

Webster defines this: "To talk idly, carelessly, inces- 
santly." 

How many conversationalists of this type do you know ? 
Many! 

Take business, for instance. The needless chatter, the 
useless chatter, that goes on in the average business office 
during working hours is the bane of the business man who 
interprets business as something at which to be busy. 

Some of it is deliberately chattered by the time-killer in 
the routine of his avocation, but much of it is simply thought- 
lessness. Those indulging in their favorite pastime of lingo- 
gymnastics do not realize that they are wasting minutes and 
hours they should devote to their work. 

Do not mistake the point. Conversation is as necessary 
in business as the three R's. Properly used, it conserves 
time, clarifies ideas, speeds up work. And even conver- 

69 



sation which is purely social in nature need not be entirely 
barred, for a business must be thoroughly humanized to be 
most successful. 

But conversation with a purpose, whether it be to dis- 
cuss a business proposition or pass the time o' day pleas- 
antly, and chatter, devoted to making " much ado about 
nothing," are two different and remotely related things. 

" I said to him " and ** He said to me " — or — "I said 
to her " and " She said to me " — will be recognized as fa- 
miliar introductions to the banalities of the ardent devotee 
of chattering. And that which follows leads nowhere; adds 
nothing to the sum total of useful human knowledge, and 
might far better be wasted on some distant desert's air. 

The magpie is the chatterer of the bird world. 

The magpies of the business world are just as vociferous. 

Is there nothing that can be done with such spendthrifts 
of conversation ? Perhaps not — with Congress setting 
such an eminent national example — but — 

Here's hoping! 



70 



An Elegy in Prose 



AN ELEGY IN PROSE 

THE richest man in ten countries lay on his death 
bed. Outside the quiet room where he was 
breathing his last, the world waited expectantly. 
Here was news in the making; news that would 
shake markets; news that would send vibrations 
from pole to pole, wherever men and money toiled, in cities 
and in deserts, in civilization and in the waste places. 

The fatal hour had come — unexpected — a stroke — a 
blow as startling as that delivered by a daggered hand in 
the dark. 

There was no family to gather around in this last hour. 
He had planned alone, built alone, toiled alone — and now 
he had commanded that he be left alone to die. One by 
one his business associates and his " friends " had departed 
from the room. 

Outside it was an April day. Nature was awakening, 
with that wondrous transformation of this season of the 
year; birds trilled their mating song; trees and shrubs were 
budding into leaf; the sky was laced here and there with 
fleecy clouds; the sun smiled and gently warmed the quick- 
ening land; a faint breeze stole thru the awakening brush 
and grass. It was the hopeful hour of birth; not the hope- 
less hour of death. 

But within — how different ! The great windows — win- 
dows that looked out across parks and lakes and dells — 
were closely curtained. The room was somber toned, its 
heavy shadows broken only here and there with the feeble 
rays that filtered from a tiny lamp that stood beside the 
bed. 

The richest man in ten countries lay passive, save that 

73 



now and then a slight tremor shook his frame. But his 
eyes were bright with that second sight that comes some- 
times to those who are at the threshold of unknown things. 

Then, suddenly, it seemed to him that the shadows of 
the room took shape, merged into forms, and these ranged 
themselves about his bed. A sorry, motley company of 
wraiths, hideous and unkempt. 

The stricken man half raised himself and with a gesture 
in which there was a semblance of his old command, whis- 
pered hoarsely: "Who are you .f^ I bid you all begone!" 

The unpleasant company smirked and smiled with crook- 
ed smiles. " You should know us," said their spokesman. 
*' We have been your boon companions for these many years. 
We have stuck to you thru thick and thin. You can not 
bid us begone, for we are of you — we are you I But since 
your memory seems to fail, meet us once again." 

And so he introduced them, one by one, as one who 
would humor a child who sulks: "Master, meet Greed, 
and Avarice, and Selfishness, and Lust, and Envy, and 
Malice and Hate." Whereupon he laughed — a dreadful 
laugh that vibrated in the stillness of the room like a chord 
of the song of the lost. 

The man shuddered and closed his eyes. His lean fin- 
gers — like talons — worked convulsively. A low moan 
escaped his lips. Was this, then, to be the end ? Were 
these to be the companions of his final hour ? 

After the laugh, a silence; and when he dared to look 
again the room was as before — somber-toned, deep-shad- 
owed, without life. The company — those boon compan- 
ions of the past — had gone. 

74 



Then the shadows seemed to lift. The room was flooded 
with a hght that dazzled and affrighted him. About his 
bed another company stood. A company fair to look up- 
on, with smiling eyes and happy mien. A company of 
comely folks, pleasant to behold. 

Again he raised himself and again he spoke, albeit his 
voice had a strange note in it — a note he failed to recognize 
as his own. 

** Who are you ? " he queried expectantly. " I have had 
unpleasant dreams. I asked to die alone. But I am afraid. 
I bid you stay with me — life is not for long." 

The pleasant company smiled and the room grew brighter 
still. 

Their leader spoke, gently, lovingly, as one addresses a 
child who has erred, but still a child whom one loves: 

" We are strangers to you," he said; " but we have always 
wanted to know you. We have come many times, thru 
many years, but you have always barred the door. You 
shall meet us now, for in this hour it is given you to see that 
which you have lost thru not knowing us before." 

So he introduced them, one by one. 

'* This is Youth," he said, presenting a comely lad. 
" Once upon a time you were as he and the blood coursed 
joyously thru your veins. Love, Life and Laughter were 
your boon companions and the lilt of happiness was in your 
heart. This Youth was yours, oh man of riches, with the 
gift of the gods beside. But that was yesterday — a long 
yesterday ago. 

" The next is Love. She came to you just when Youth 
was relinquishing its hold — came with the lure of soft June 

76 



nights and warm caresses and those precious gifts that only 
Love can bring. But you were cold. Ambition counselled 
you. 'Put Love out of your life; you need naught of her,* 
said he. And you obeyed. 

" Now meet Fellowship. It has been many years since 
you have heard his name linked with yours. There was a 
time, man of riches, when he meant the world to you, but 
that was in those golden days when you knew Youth as 
well. Long ago he reluctantly departed from your side, 
for there was naught in common between you. His impul- 
ses were generous, his heart was light, his eyes looked out 
upon a friendly world. Fellowship could not be for you, 
for you had decreed that Self should serve instead. 

" Here's Laughter, too. How long since you have known 
her ? The years are many, master. She is of the days of 
the care-free heart and joyousness. She is of the hours 
when you knew beauty and caught the glint of dreams. 
She is of the butterflies and flowers. Long since the echoes 
of her chimes died within the walls of your house of life. 

" With her is Happiness, her constant companion. Hap- 
piness, as Youth, was once, twice, thrice, many times, with- 
in your grasp. But she eluded you. Happiness is not for 
those who surround themselves with sorry company. Hap- 
piness cannot abide within the dwelling place of care. Nay, 
Happiness is for those who know the fulsomeness of life; 
those who live, money man, not those who drag their way 
thru a monotony of years. 

" Faith IS next. Faith, meet one who lost you long ago, 
and with you lost all that makes a life worth while. If he 
had parted from you with reluctance. Faith, I'm sure you 
would have returned to him in time. But he discarded you 
lightly, as one disposes of an inconsequential thing and there 

76 



was no way open for you to find his heart. Gaze upon 
him. Faith, for, losing you, he is but the semblance of what 
he was when you abode within his house. 

" Finally, here is Charity. She it was you put away first 
of all. For was it not Greed, your friend, who said, ' What 
have you to do with Charity ? She will but beggar you! ' ? 
So it has been long since that you knew Charity; that she 
brought warm impulses to your heart; that she stretched 
out your hand with largess to those less fortunate than you. 

"I — I am Pity. The sole survivor of this noble com- 
pany with which you once made merry. And, in my way, 
I am Memory, too — that Memory you feared to face in 
this last hour. Yet that Memory you tremulously, pitifully, 
bid come to you — now — and command others depart, 
that they may not know your wistful wish. 

" But I — Pity and Memory as one, — I have come too 
late, oh man of riches. Had you ordered otherwise — for 
it was ever within your power — my companions might have 
solaced your final hour — sent you back to whence you 
came, with a tender smile on lips where dwelt eternal peace. 

" Now, now, my companions must away, for you denied 
them far too long, and I, as Pity only, shall remain." 

The speaker ceased. The richest man in ten countries 
saw, with glazing eyes, the tears that stole down his wrinkled 
cheeks — and that was all! 



77 



The Riddle: Man 




THE RIDDLE: MAN 

AN, we are told, was created to " have domin- 
ion over the fish of the sea, and over the 
fowl of the air, and over every living thing 
that moveth upon the earth." So it was or- 
dained and so it has obtained since the begin- 
ning. And yet, how peculiar a creature is man! 

Place him upon a pinnacle and he is one thing; drop him 
into the abyss and he is another. Make him one of a crowd 
of his fellows and he acts thus; set him alone and he acts 
so. Give him riches and witness a miser; reduce him to 
poverty and behold a prodigal. 

Man is ever a study in variables. And yet — why not ? 

Let us consider the influences which bear upon him to 
make him what he is — if heredity be given credence in 
shaping a life. 

The span of the average generation is twenty years. 
Thus, forty years back four ancestors are shown; sixty years, 
eight; eighty years, sixteen; one hundred, thirty-two. 

Now let us seek even farther. Take five hundred years 
— • not a great length of time in the history of the world — 
only seventy-odd years before the discovery of America — 
and what do we find ? 

Just this — in that span of five centuries a man's — any 
man's — ancestors amount to the amazing total of sixty- 
seven million, one hundred and eight thousand, eight hun- 
dred and sixty-four. 

Man is a study in variables. Is it any wonder ? Con- 
sider the influence, though even remote, of even a portion 
of that sixty-seven million men and women. 

81 



Sit back In your chair and contemplate that panorama 
of human life — the good and the bad, the rich and the 
poor, the high and the low, the learned and the ignorant. 
Then guess — as guess you must — at the traits of char- 
acter which have been handed down thru that vast line, to 
find expression finally in some act of man. 

And yet, despite it all, how true to form he runs! How 
thin the veneer of the years! How quickly he reverts to 
type! Despite our boasted civilization, the savage lurks 
within him still. 

Study man. You'll find him worthy of your keenest 
intelligence. 

What, then, of woman ? 

Study her, too, if you desire. But bring to the task the 
knowledge that you'll not understand her, for she does not 
understand herself. 

The sixty-seven million have rendered her an enigma. 



89 



With Reverse English 



WITH REVERSE ENGLISH 

THE door closed on the last of his guests — the 
" farewell party " was over. It had been a 
success, he thought whimsically, as he gazed at 
the debris they had left behind — the remnants 
of a midnight supper, dead " soldiers " from the 
reserves, cigarette butts, cigar ashes. . . 

His hand still tingled with the firm clasp that went with 
their congratulations. There had been good-natured raillery, 
of course; but he knew that each one of those friends, tried 
and true, had been sincere in their well wishes. 

So this was the end of bachelor life! Within a few hours 
he would take the second degree — become a benedict. And 
after that, farewell to the old order of things, to the free life 
and the gay life. He would settle down — there would be 
a family, perhaps; — he would shoulder new responsibilities. 

A picture of the Girl smiled at him from the mantel. He 
took it down : gazed at it long and earnestly. His thoughts 
travelled the lanes of the years. At times he smiled at the 
recollections that came; again, he winced as he glimpsed 
corners of his life still littered with rubbish. 

The chime of the hour finally broke his reverie. " A few 
hours more and you will be mine, dear Girl," he whispered; 
" but / am not worthy of you ! " 

• •••• • • •• • • 

Elsewhere in that city, that night, the Girl, lovely in her 
negligee, performed the last rites. There was a little bun- 
dle of letters to be read for the last time, sighed over and 
laid on the fire. They belonged now to the life of the past. 
There were little bundles of thoughts to be untied, too, 
sorted over and joyed in for a few brief moments. 



85 



There had been many men who had meant many things 
in her Hfe until the man came, and in these few dehcious 
hours left of her freedom she felt that there was no injus- 
tice if she let a last remembrance of them sweep over her. 

So she communed with the past until the chime of the 
hour finally broke her reverie. '* A few hours more and I 
will be his," she whispered; " but 7 am not worthy of him ! " 



The door closed on the last of his guests — the ** victory 
party " was over. It had been a success, he thought, as he 
remembered the rollicking " boys and girls " who had par- 
ticipated. 

His hand still tingled with the firm clasp that went with 
their congratulations. There had been good-natured raillery, 
of course; but he knew that each one of those friends had 
been sincere in their well wishes. 

So this was the beginning of freedom ! Only a few hours 
past he had received the third degree — become a divorced 
man. And now, hail to the new order of things — to the 
free life and the gay life! For five years he had settled 
down — but now! . 

A picture of the Wife That Was stared at him — a stran- 
ger — from the mantel. He took it down — crumpled it 
in his hand — cast it on the fire. His thoughts travelled the 
rough road of those years of domestic life. Certainly, from 
the beginning, it had been a mistake. They never had been 
suited to one another. Little things, at first, proved that. 
How soon they had become bigger things — too big to 
overlook ! 

Well, it was over, thank God! "A few hours back we 

86 



called it ' quits,' old girl! " he exclaimed; " for you were not 
worthy of me ! " 



Elsewhere in that city, that night, the Wife That Was 
performed the new rites. There were letters to be written; 
broken threads to be mended; a new course to be charted. 
These belonged to the life of the future. There were bun- 
dles of thoughts, too, to be sorted over and laid away in the 
store-house of forgotten things. 

There had been many men who had meant many things 
in her life until the Husband That Was had wrecked it, and 
in the delicious hours of her new freedom she felt there was 
justice in the thought that this might yet mean future 
happiness. 

Well, it was over, thank God ! " And to think that a 
few hours back I was tied to him!" she exclaimed; "yet 
he was not worthy of mel^* 



87 



Digits and Deeds 



DIGITS AND DEEDS 

IN a great council room, in a magnificent building, in 
the world's richest city, a group of men sat around a 
table. Before them, on the mahogany, were many 
papers, each covered with figures. These were the 
leaders in business and finance of a nation. And fig- 
ures were the coign of their financial capitol, as figures were 
the coin of their business capital. 

Their business finished, they broke up, gathered in little 
groups, went their way. And all each took with him was 
figures. 

But let us, with occult eye, look thru, and beyond, those 
figures. Figures which were to them but the ancient digits 
of trade; figures which will be to us but the symbols of big- 
ger things. 

From that room, in that building, that city, there ra- 
diated hundreds of invisible arteries, pulsating with life. 

These led to cities, states, countries — girdled the globe. 
And, wherever they led, the rich red blood which was sent 
coursing thru them came from the hearts of men. 

Girder upon girder, men raised to imposing heights build- 
ings that were destined to be the landmarks of cities; or, 
brick upon brick and stone upon stone, brought into being 
huge manufacturing plants. 

Across vast plains men pushed their way, day by day, 
leaving behind them a trail of steel, over which was to pass 
the traffic, human and freight, of the years. 

In the waste places of the earth, men — unkempt, re- 
duced to almost the primitive, save for their loyal hearts — 
cleared forests, drained swamps, bridged rivers, damned and 

91 



dammed, but ever pushed on, that civilization — and busi- 
ness — might follow. 

Everywhere, in the countless enterprises of magnates and 
money, men were engaged — leaving behind them, for the 
most part, the comforts of home and society, that the work 
of the world might be done. 

But, back in that room, in that building, that city, the 
sum total of their herculean endeavor, their sacrifice, their 
achievement, their sweat and their blood — was figures ! 

Figures and figures and figures — digits arranged in vary- 
ing sequence, with marks of dollars or tons or miles or what 
not before them — how cold and unresponsive a thing they 
are! 

Figures and figures and figures — figures of men, stalwart, 
up-standing, red-blooded, sacrificing, loyal — how warm and 
responsive a thing to contemplate! 



99 



Calvary 




CALVARY 

ALL and straight in the forest it grew — as a 
good tree should; — but it sighed as it swayed in 
the wind, for it longed to be what it never could 
be — a tinseled, glittering Christmas Tree. 

Tall and straight in the world he grew — as a 
good man should; — but he sighed as he did the daily task, 
for he longed to be what he never could be — a wonderful 
Man of Destiny. 

Oh Man! Oh Tree! How blessed is thy Calvary! 



95 



A Postlude of the Post 




A POSTLUDE OF THE POST 

O old John sat and rocked in the willow rocker on 
the tiny porch of his little cottage and gazed out 
into the dusk of a June night — with eyes that saw 
not, with ears that heard not, with the grim spec- 
ter of a hope that was not. 



As far back as one's memory ran, it seemed, old John 
had brought the mail. Day by day, rain or shine, hot or 
cold, one could expect him at certain hours — steady, re- 
liable, as sure as death and taxes. 

John must have been always old. At least one could 
never think of him as young. His shoulders were hunched 
with the constant drag of his bag of mail ( tons there had 
been of it thru the years! ). His step was that of a plod- 
der, the spring of it long since departed in the thousands 
of miles he had travelled as he made his rounds. 

Perhaps his uniform was new now and then, but it never 
seemed so. The new would so quickly settle into the wrin- 
kles and creases and wear of the old that one quite merged 
with the other. 

The world moved about and around old John. His life 
never varied. His was a routine, a rut, an endless success- 
ion of the same things day after day. Seasons came and 
went, years ran their course, even decades, it seemed, passed 
by — but for him there was an unvarying monotony. 

Daily he handed out his pieces and parcels of mail. He 
had seen sons grow to fathers and then to grandfathers, 
with their sons in business with them. He had seen small 
concerns develop into big organizations. He had witnessed 

99 



family comedies and tragedies. He had been the spectator 
at many of the community's successes and reverses. 

His had been the hand that had unknowingly dealt out 
happiness and sorrow; that had brought the first spark of 
recognition to one who rejoiced that he had been found, the 
last word from one who despaired in his loss. 

There was infinite pathos in the life of old John, yet he 
never realized it nor did it dawn upon those whom he served. 
To him life had become simply a treadmill — a struggle for 
existence — and he a cog in a machine. To others he was 
just old John, the postman — a sight to which they had 
grown so accustomed that he ceased to represent anything 
human and was merely part of a system. 

Years before — I cannot even hazard a guess — when he 
entered the service it had seemed a real opportunity. True, 
the pay was small, even then, but his wants were few and 
it did not cost much to live. Moreover, here was a sure 
job — working for the Government — a job that he could 
depend upon. 

As time went on and he was graduated from a cadetship 
to the responsibility of a route of his own, his pay was in- 
creased. Then it was he decided he could afford to set up 
a little home. So he married — a sensible girl, without 
much vision perhaps, but a good helpmate for a man who 
expected little of the world and received that little with 
gratitude. 

But this is not a chronological history of the life of old 
John. Neither is it a story. Call it an incident if you 
must give it a name. I prefer to think of it simply as a 
postlude — 

For as years went by, the price of the right to existence 
mounted steadily upward, but John's ability to pay that 

100 



price remained where it had been always — back somewhere 
in musty archives where lay compilations of the long ago. 

True, he had received several little boosts in pay, but 
they had made no material difference. Still the two ends 
barely met, for what was $1400 when there was a family to 
care for and everything had increased two, three, ten times 
over the days of $1400 salaries ? 

There were many reasons why he could not be paid more. 
He heard them patiently. But John did not understand 
politics, or finance, or making a showing, or why it cost 
more to handle one class of mail than another. All John 
knew was that he was struggling to achieve the impossible; 
that others — friends of his youth who had learned trades 
— had received increases in wages thru the years that en- 
abled them to keep abreast with the pace of living; that all 
he had to show for his long and faithful service was the 
prospect of a little pension in the future, and the reality of 
a present burden that he could not bear. 

It was too late to turn his hand to other things; to seek 
a new field where there were opportunities to make a wage 
commensurate with the demands upon him. He was only 
a postman — skilled in nothing save the duties of his daily 
routine — too old to learn a trade — too single-gauged thru 
the life he had led to broaden into other activities. 

• ••• • • • • • •• 

So old John sat and rocked in the willow rocker on the 
tiny porch of his little cottage and gazed out into the dusk 
of a June night — with eyes that saw not, with ears that 
heard not, with the grim specter of a hope that was not. 



Author's Note: Since this was written old John's pay has been 
increased to $1800, but I'm afraid it has come too late to make much 
difference in his life. 

101 



The Quest 



THE QUEST 

HIS quest had been world-wide. And his quest 
had been Hfe-vain. He remembered when the 
urge of it first came upon him. It was in his 
youth — in that gray youth of his — when 
there was not even a tiny rift in the dark clouds 
of his future. 

He recalled how he had stood outside the door of the 
only home he had ever known — the home that was to be 
his no more — and with clenched hands, with a heart where- 
in there waged a tumult of emotions, had resolved that he 
would find it; that he would make it his own; that it would 
reside in his house of life thruout the years. 

That was years agone and in the span of them he had 
ranged the earth and cruised the seven seas. Sometimes 
it had seemed almost within his grasp; once he felt that he 
possessed it, and was content. But, always, in the end, it 
eluded him. Like a will-o'-the-wisp it danced before him, 
only to lead his eager footsteps into sloughs of despond. 

He had sought it in fortune — but with the attainment 
of wealth it had fled faster than before. 

He had sought it in love, where he was told others had 
found it — but, while it hovered almost within his grasp, 
his love palled and it hurried away. 

He had sought it in life and gayety, in " wine, women and 
song" — but when he clutched it to his heart he found it 
was only a counterfeit. 

He had sought it in the open places of the earth; in the 
forest; by the stream, with only the wind and the stars for 

105 



companions — but the thoughts he conjured in those vast 
silences kept it away. 

So he had gone, thru the years; at first eager-eyed and 
expectant, then with the shadow of many disappointments 
upon his face, and finally with that look in his eyes which 
was the acknowledgment of abandoned hope. 

But, in the end, he found it — and the close of the quest 
was thus: 

One night he dreamed a dream. Before him a Patriarch 
appeared, wise, and kindly of mien. And he spoke to him, 
saying: *' My son, yours has been a fruitless quest — the 
pursuit of Happiness. And yet, it need not have been, for 
Happiness has been always within your reach. Seek it no 
further than the round of your every-day life." 

With a beneficent smile he was gone. 

The dreamer pondered the message when he awoke to 
the tasks of the day. His mind dwelt upon it as he sat at 
his desk in his office — " You need seek no further than the 
round of your every-day life." 

But it was not until he was plunged into a vortex of 
business that demanded his every waking hour that the 
hidden meaning in his dream came home to him — 

Happiness — true Happiness — was in his Work I 

And, as the remaining years went by, he found it so to 
the uttermost part. 



106 



The Parable of the Position 



THE PARABLE OF THE POSITION 

ONCE upon a time. Luck, Connivance and For- 
tune, in sportive mood, came upon a little man 
who was bewailing his fate. " Oh that I might 
be somebody; that I might hold a position in 
life that would bring me the homage of men! " 
was the burden of his plaint. 

" What a shame," said they, hearing him, " that this 
poor mortal should not have such a simple wish gratified " 

So Luck brought an important position his way; Conni- 
vance helped him along, and Fortune made it possible for 
him to secure it. 

Then they went their way, laughing, for they had played 
such tricks before. 

Before the Position came the little man was just little. 
After he got it he became small. I trust you catch the 
distinction. 

With the position went honor and homage. Hence, when 
the little man got it, he caused his name to be scrolled in 
gold on his door and he withdrew from contact with the 
world, as befitted his station. When he was seen it was 
only thru the good offices of Appointment; and even then 
he kept a tiresome servant, called Waiting, in the anteroom 
of his House. 

You 've met little men like our little man, but our little 
man outpointed them all. He grew every day — in his es- 
timation — until the Position became, not the gift of Luck, 
Connivance and Fortune, but only a belated tribute to his 
genius. 

And as this thought persisted and grew, he expanded 

109 



with it until people gave him another name than that which 
he had been christened — and the name was Insufferable. 

But the little man never realized this until one day, with 
Ambition as counsel, he had words with his Position. 

** Position," he said, ** you are unworthy of me. I am 
fitted for bigger things. Go summon other Positions, that 
I may pick and choose one more befitting my talents." 

But his Position only smiled. 

"Listen!" it commanded. ** You are like many men 
who have held me — confused in your understanding. 
When you got me / brought you honor and homage. You 
did not create them. They are part of me. They go 
where I go. They 're bestowed only when I bestow them. 
Without me you are nothing — a little man, as I found you. 

" If you had realized this — respected me and what I 
represent — all would have gone well with you. Other and 
greater Positions than I would have sought you. But no, 
you — inflated with egotism — confused our identities. 

" Before you held me men looked upon me with kindly 
eyes, for I represented something to command their respect. 
Now I have suffered in prestige, because you have been un- 
worthy of me. The fault is yours, but for the time I must 
share it with you. 

"Go! — get out of me! — and learn, thru your friend, 
( though you will not think him such, being unseeing ), Bit- 
ter Experience, that all I have said is true. Learn, little 
man of little comprehension, that Positions make men as 
well as men make Positions! 

" And when the light of comprehension comes, with it 
may come the understanding also that in life you deal with 

110 



Positions, not with those who occupy them, for Positions 
remain long after their one-time occupants are forgotten." 

Thus endeth the lesson. 



Ill 



I Will ! 




I WILLI 

I HE man turned over a page in the book of his hfe 
and with a bold, free hand wrote at its top the 
date of a new year. Then, with a smile that was 
half whimsical and half sorrowful, he leaved thru 
the preceding pages — forty in all. 

In the earlier pages there were few entries; but from the 
twentieth page the record became increasingly voluminous. 

There were blots and erasures and revisions sprinkled here 
and there thru the text ; but withal, the record was a fairly 
clean one. 

With a sigh he turned back to the fresh, clean page and 
the new year. Then, after a moment's hesitation, after the 
date he had written he wrote: 

I WILL — 

There he paused. In his mind were the old resolutions 
— the resolutions so often made and so seldom kept — the 
resolutions that had become almost a matter of habit with 
him at the beginning of each year of his life. 

I WILL — 

The words took on a new significance as he gazed at them. 
They suddenly stood alone — an entity — vibrant with life, 
pregnant with meaning, powered with purpose. 

I WILL! 

From some inner consciousness the words came to him — 
" I am Master of my Fate." 

** What I WILL to be I will be," he repeated softly. 

I WILL! 

115 



A strange new power welled within him. He stretched 
out his arms. They seemed to compass the world. He 
felt a thrill of mastery such as he had never known. 

I WILL! 

The words leaped to his brain as a message from the Un- 
known; a call, a command, in this hour, to fulfill the prom- 
ise of his destiny. 

I WILL! 

His mind groped with the amazing wonder of the reve- 
lation that had come to him. He flung aside the record of 
his forty years. What a pitiful estate was his! What a 
wastrel he had been with his possibilities, his opportunities, 
his 'birthright ! How he had stumbled thru the years, con- 
tent with mediocrity, never coming to the greatest truth of 
life until this belated hour! 

I WILL! 

He cried aloud with the sheer joy of it. He intoned the 
magic words again and again — I WILL ! — I WILL ! — I 
WILL! — 

And somewhere in the vast spaces beyond his ken were 
those who rejoiced with him; for they knew, too, that he 
had found the key that unlocks the door of the House of 
Life. 



116 



Daughters of Duty 




DAUGHTERS OF DUTY 

I HIS is the story of Anna, but it could be just as 
well the story of Alice, or Elizabeth, or Margaret. 
The name does n't matter. Anna, for our pur- 
pose, stands for all of her unfortunate sisters. 

Anna and I are about of an age. We were 
children together — playmates — and shared childish con- 
fidences. She knew the high ambitions that were mine. I 
knew the dreams she hoped would become realities — dreams 
that ever had a fairy prince in them. 

The maternal instinct was strong within her. She loved 
dolls passionately. A suffering creature brought the ten- 
derest emotion. And she would croon over a baby with a 
motherliness that was touching to see. 

As time went on Anna grew into a comely maid. She 
was popular with the young folks of the village and did not 
lack for suitors. But it was then the shadow fell across her 
life, and the burden upon her shoulders — a shadow and a 
burden with her to this day. 

The two were one — her mother! Young men came, with 
serious intent, but none was good enough for Anna, in her 
mother's eyes, and none was venturesome enough to fight 
his way. One was poor and would never get along in the 
world; another was of doubtful antecedents; another was 
too crude; another too young; another too old: all would 
take her from her mother's side. 

Perhaps her mother might have been suited with some 
spineless male endowed with the world's goods who would 
have provided a home for both Anna and her mother and 
catered to the idiosyncrasies of the latter — but such never 
came a-wooing. 

119 



Anna was a dutiful daughter. Oh, the heartaches and 
the ashed hopes of the daughters of duty! She loved her 
mother, as mother natures such as hers do love, and m that 
affection buried all of self. 

So time went on, and Anna passed from a budding girl- 
hood to a full-blown womanhood. The boys and girls of 
her youth married and settled down in the village or de- 
parted into the world. The oncoming generation could not 
accept her as part of their day — youth must be served. 
Thus she grew into the life of the village as one who had 
taken the vows of spinsterhood. And, if you know village 
life, you know this means almost the confines of convent 
walls and the isolation of the veil. 

She might have become a teacher, or a nurse, or a clerk, 
or a stenographer, but the very thought of her daughter 
working — "earning a living," as she put it — was abhor- 
rent to the mother. So Anna merely drifted on, one day 
the same as another, as days are apt to be in quiet commun- 
ities; a bit of driftwood on the sea of life and yet the victim 
of the paradox that she was ever in a sheltered harbor. 

Her mother grew querulous and old. Her demands be- 
came more exacting; her pleasure more difficult to serve. 
But she would have been the last to believe that she had 
not been fair with Anna. She would have protested her 
love — a mother love so great that it had encompassed her 
child all her life, safeguarded and sheltered her from the 
world. 

Those who know the Annas of life — and they are legion 
— know that such a love is a love of self that may be well 
called the supreme selfishness. A love so self-centered and 
so cruel that it will sacrifice a life that never asked to be, 
to be a life of endless sacrifice. 

120 



Duty to a parent — what a tragedy it may become ! In 
youth a silken fetter, perhaps, held lightly in the hands of 
love. At middle-age shackles of steel, locked with selfish- 
ness, to which Death alone holds the key. 

Daughters of duty — robbed of the divine right of mother- 
hood, of a home of your own, of self-expression, of the ful- 
fillment of dreams, of the realization of hopes, of all that 
you were God-granted the right to attain — my heart goes 
out to you in sympathy, as it has gone these many years to 
Anna, playmate and confidante of youth! 



121 



Where the Fourth is First 




WHERE THE FOURTH IS FIRST 

WENT home for the Fourth. A city's no place to 
celebrate that glorious occasion. A city's too big — 
too big to get the spirit of youth, to frolic and make 
merry. A city never can quite quit taking itself too 
seriously. 

So I went home for the Fourth — back to the small town 
where they knew me when I wore short pants — and went 
barefooted — and never suspected that destiny waited 'round 
the corner. 

Of course the town has changed. They are proud of 
their " little city " and will tell you about the industries 
located there and what a hustling, bustling place it has be- 
come. 

Many of the old landmarks are gone. Scores of the old 
residents have passed away. Streets have been paved. 
There are electric lights. A traction line traverses the main 
thoroughfare. Farmers do their Saturday shopping with 
automobiles and have deliveries made by parcel post. Pict- 
ure shows face the Public Square. Things are modern — 
very — 

But — 

The spirit of the town has not changed. With all the 
improvements — all the development the march of civili- 
zation brings invariably — the spirit of the small town re- 
mains. A spirit of neighborliness that your city man can- 
not understand if he has never known it and your small 
town man never can quite forget. 

I found there were " big doings " scheduled for the day. 
The Fourth was always an important occasion there as far 
back as I can remember; but this Fourth was to out-Fourth 

125 



any that had ever preceded it. It was to be the supreme 
effort of the old town — something for residents to use as a 
comparison for years to come. 

And it was. I'll say it was! 

Starting at six-thirty in the morning with a flag-raising, 
there was something doing every minute until ten o'clock 
at night. 

There was a parade — a real parade with floats and dele- 
gations from the D. A. R. and the G. A. R. and every 
other organization of any importance — and an old-fashioned 
barbecue — and a picnic — and horse racing at the Fair 
Grounds — and ball games — and a band concert on the 
Public Square — and fireworks — and everything ! 

And there were crowds and crowds of people — fat people 
and lean people — cool looking people and perspiring people 
— important people and plain people — people, people, 
people — the kind of people that make up the bulk of the 
population of these great United States. 

Neighborly people, I always think of them. Plain, sub- 
stantial, real. The kind of folks that home folks ought to 
be — without frills or feathers — without affectation or 
ostentation — honestly glad to see you, really regretful to 
have you go. 

And — I almost forgot the most important thing of all — 
there were fire-crackers. Not cannon crackers, but the 
little Chinese variety that I used to delight in as a boy. 
The kind that about half of them fail to explode and you 
make ** fizzers " of them. I had n't had the never-to-be- 
forgotten scent of a pack of them for years. 

Perhaps I'm in the minority, but I am one of those who 
was never " keen " for this new-fangled notion of a " sane " 

126 



Fourth of July. I realize that the blessed privilege of mak- 
ing a noise on this national occasion was abused, but it 
seemed to me always they might have left at least the little 
fire-crackers and the " nigger chasers " for some of us who 
refuse to grow up. 

As a boy I think I put the Fourth above any other " day 
of days." Christmas was fine; New Year, Decoration Day, 
St. Patrick's Day, Washington's Birthday, and the like, oc- 
casions to be observed. But it was the Fourth to which I 
looked forward with the keenest expectancy; for which I 
hoarded my pennies with the most ardor, and which I en- 
joyed with the greatest delight. 

Somehow I have a feeling that the children of this gen- 
eration have lost something in not knowing the " insane " 
Fourth as I knew it. In not getting up at the break of day 
to light a piece of punk for those fire-crackers shot off un- 
der father's and mother's windows to awaken them; in not 
touching off, in the dusk of the evening, those long-cherished 
roman candles and sky rockets and bewildering pin-wheels. 
What fun can there be possibly in watching professionals 
manage elaborate displays of intricate set pieces, regardless 
of the beautiful effects obtained ? 

But I did not set out to write a brief for an " insane " 
Fourth. 

On the contrary, I just wanted to tell you that I went 
home for the Fourth. 

And I'm only sorry you could n't have gone home with 
me. 



127 



The Answer 




THE ANSWER 

I HE Board of Directors left the meeting room, sin- 
gularly quiet and depressed. Instead of the ban- 
ter and laughter that usually marked the close of 
a session there was only a procession of silent men 
— like a funeral procession. 

For the news they had just heard within that room was 
news that stunned them; that came as a stroke of misfor- 
tune they could not comprehend; that stripped them, for the 
time, of their gift of tongue and their grasp of emergencies. 

The President had resigned! 

Thru the vast plant the news traveled. First a whisper; 
then, as the rumor gained momentum and confirmation, 
a tumult of speculation that grew and grew in volume un- 
til it was the topic of the hour. 

The President resigned! Men in the shops ceased work 
and drew together in excited groups. In the offices, the 
lowliest clerks to the highest department heads stood 
stunned with the blow. 

The " Old Man " was going. Even the oldest employee 
could not remember when he had n't been there. It seemed 
he was the very inception of the business — why, he was 
the business itself, its head, its heart, its life ! Without him 
how could there be any business, as without a father how 
could there be a head to a family ? 

True, they knew he had been failing in health — his years 
were beginning to tell upon him. But, day in and day out, 
he was at his desk — in that old room they all knew so well 
— or thru the plant, with the same cheery word of the years 
for Tom and Charley and Mike — the whole host of them 
who had grown to love him in their decades of association. 

131 



It could not be — it must not be! The sentiment spread 
from group to group. Something should be done. Some 
action must be taken. The ** Old Man" must be persuaded. 



Back in the room the Directors had left, a kindly-faced, 
gray-haired man, seemingly in the prime of life, sat in his 
big leather-faced chair and gazed out of the window — gazed 
on a maze of tracks, with fussy switch-engines and loaded 
cars moving here and there; gazed on scores of men hurry- 
ing to and fro; gazed on smoke and grime and industry. 

But his vision went thru it and past it to that time when 
he sat in the self-same chair in a little wooden shack and 
gazed out of the window upon smiling meadow lands, pic- 
turing in his imagination the scene that today was real. 

Over his face there passed the shadow of a smile. He 
brushed his hand across his eyes. This was the only life 
he knew — and he was leaving it. 

A movement at the door caught his attention and drew 
him back to the world of realities. One by one a group of 
men filed into the room — most of them as old as he — 
some with working clothes and grimy hands — others of the 
" white collar " class. 

Their spokesman — one of the oldest employees in the 
plant — told their story. They had heard — the whole 
plant had heard — that he was resigning. It must not be 
— it could not be ! They needed him — now, in these days 
of disturbance, as never before. Of their own initiative 
they had come, from office and bench, to plead, if necessary, 
that he change his decision. 

The " Old Man " sat motionless, but the knuckles of his 
hands showed white in their grip of the arms of the old 

189 



chair. When the appeal had ended he spoke, and there 
was a tremor in his voice: 

" I have been honored thru life as I never deserved to be 
honored; but all the honors of all the years mean less than 
the fact that you have come here today — of your own ac- 
cord — to ask this thing of me. 

" But, men, it cannot be. They tell me that I have but 
a little while to live — to work or play. And I have elect- 
ed to spend the days yet mine in play. To spend them 
with my family — that family I have cheated in the past 
years — cheated because I have given them so little of my- 
self. 

" So I have decided that you must go on without me. 
But this decision would not have been made if it had not 
been for one thing. And that thing — that stabilizing 
thought — I leave with you as my bequest. 

" In the years I have been associated with you, I have 
not wrought with steel or iron or brass. These materials 
you have fabricated for me — for the company — and so 
well that our products are known to the ends of the earth. 
But I have wrought with men. My life work has been the 
fabrication of human material. And I can safely, surely 
leave you now because I know that the product to which 
I have turned my hand and the little skill I possess has, 
too, turned out successfully. 

" I can go now, knowing that the men this institution 
has made — men, tried and steadfast and true — will carry 
on that minor thing — the manufacture of inanimate things 
— just as well as though I were here. 

" You will miss me. For that I thank God as a most 
precious heritage of the years. But the business will not 

133 



miss me, after the first slight re-adjustment, for the busi- 
ness is bigger than any man could be — the business is the 
sum total, the composite, of many men — men forged in 
its crucible — tempered, true-cutting tools.'* 

The President ceased. The men, realizing the futility of 
speech and glimpsing the greater thing, filed silently from 
the room, gripping his hand as they went. 

Oh, would that this story might have its counterpart 
thruout the length and breadth of the land ; that the belch- 
ing smoke of every plant might token to the world — here 
MEN are made! 



134 



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